Stay
by TolkienGirl
Summary: "There weren't…" he begins, and then stops short. There's a lack of his charming veneer in the halted words. He amends it with a quick, half-apologetic smile…almost as though he's sorry for letting the guard down. "No visitors?" Dean finds himself alone in the hospital on a certain anniversary. Stanford-era, Outsider POV. Hurt!Dean, H/C, angst. Rating for mild language. NO SLASH.


**A/N: This just popped out of nowhere. I'm rather fond of Outsider POVs, and Stanford-era…and angst…so, yeah. All-in-one!**

**Reviews are happiness!**

**Disclaimer: You know what's mine and what isn't.**

He can't be much more than twenty-two. The face is too thin, the rather elegant hands—despite a surprising number of callouses—are unlined. She wonders what brings him here on this November evening…a drunken brawl? A car accident? It's hard to say.

Something's off, and not just the crooked line of his fractured collarbone. There's something ever so slightly fishy about the insurance, and his name—Dean James…which, who is he kidding, is rather obviously a reference to _James Dean_ (to whom this particular patient bares a certain resemblance, replete with leather jacket, broad shoulders, and lean hips)—can't be his own.

His eyes are closed, but the crease in his forehead spells out pain in letters that twenty-three years of nursing have taught her to read.

"Dean?" she says softly. "Mr…James?"

His eyes blink open, startling her. They're so _green_. Green, amber…probably what his driver's license (which is floating somewhere in this packet of papers in her hands) would categorize as _Hazel_. To describe them with one word seems to trivialize them, somehow. They're much deeper than just a color. Sure, the fog of pain and medication blurs them slightly, but she can see how many miles stretch beyond that…and the path within this patient's eyes is a strange one, marked with wariness that will probably pretend to be charm and memories that manifest themselves in a peculiar kind of emptiness.

Elaine Willis, R.N., clears her throat. He's a patient. She's a nurse. This is no place for poetry, and certainly no time. "Mr. James, do you know where you are?"

Those eyes dart around the room in a glance so quick she nearly misses it. "Only one place in the world with beds this lumpy."

His voice is interesting too—hard to place, as though he's tried out a dozen accents and cast them all away.

She finds herself responding to his wry humor with a smile. "I'm sorry that you're uncomfortable, Mr. James."

He seems about to shrug and then thinks better of it. "How long till I can check out?"

"You've fractured your clavicle," she informs, glancing down at her notes. "You've also got some nasty bruises. The doctor was worried about internal bleeding—"

"You set the bone already?" The fingers of his good arm play hesitantly over the injured area.

"Yes. You don't remember?"

"It's a bit hazy, but I guess. It hurt like a bitc—" he stops short of swearing and slides her an attempt at a cocky grin. "You know."

"I bet." She sets down her pad. "I just came to check up on it, make sure it feels right." She moves towards the bed. "Do you mind if I—"

"Touch me?" His smile is far too convincing to be real. "Knock yourself out, sweetheart."

It almost brings a blush to her cheeks, despite herself. But Elaine Willis is a practical woman, and she knows that even if forty-five's been kind to her, it's still forty-five. She's never been any more than pleasant-faced, for starters…

So why is this rakishly handsome young stranger with the bright, tired eyes trying to flirt with her?

She presses practiced fingers gently around the site of the break, making sure it's all realigned. He winces, and of course it's a reasonable reaction, but there's a flicker in his eyes which suggests that there's more broken here than a bone…and something about her light touch…her _maternal_ (?) touch…has prodded it.

She wonders, then, if he forces himself to think of women as conquests because it hurts him too much to ever think of them as mothers.

She smiles in an attempt to be comforting, but it's less convincing than his was and no more real. "I think it'll heal fine."

He murmurs in reply, and it sounds almost like, "It always does," but she doubts that _that_ can be true…even with sports and boyish exploits, how many times can he have broken a bone?

But when she looks at his eyes again, and then at the swerves and dashes of a few prominent scars scrawled across his exposed arms, she doubts her own dubiety.

A silence falls between them, and she looks to see if he's ready to drift back into some fitful approximation of sleep. But his eyes haven't closed.

"There weren't…" he begins, and then stops short. There's a lack of his charming veneer in the halted words. He amends it with a quick, half-apologetic smile…almost as though he's sorry for letting the guard down. "No visitors?"

She wishes there were, and glances down at her papers perfunctorily as though she doesn't already know the answer. It's been a long day, sure, but she has no idea why this random walk-in is tugging at her heartstrings so. "Sorry, hon. You checked yourself in, and…"

"Right." He won't even let her finish. "Guess that just means I'll be out all the sooner."

She feels the need to explain. "You have nobody listed under next of kin, Mr. James. Otherwise we would have made a call—"

"Even if you had a number, nobody would answer," he informs her, with another smile…they're growing less convincing by the second. "It's the second of November, after all." It's said quietly, almost to himself.

It must be the pain meds talking. She's tempted to ask why the second of November so important, but the very words are charged with meaning that isn't hers to know.

"You got…somewhere to be?" he asks, nonchalantly. Or at least, there's a layer of nonchalance scrambled up in there somewhere. She doesn't bother believing it.

"No, it's a bit quiet tonight."

_Stay._ His eyes ask the question that his lips are too proud, too wary, too _tired_ to.

_Nobody would answer._ That means that mostly likely there _is_ someone who could, but who won't…

A father, or a sibling. But not a mother.

_Definitely not a mother_.

"To be honest, if you wouldn't mind, I'll just sit here for a spell," she offers. His eyes are grateful and amused all at once; he sees through it instantly but he's gotten what he wants so he's certainly not going to comment.

"We haven't been properly introduced," he remarks, after a companionable pause. He shifts, glancing at her nametag. "It's nice to meet you…Elaine. I've always taken a shine to nurses." His eyes glint with mischief.

"I'm sure." There's nobody else to hear, so she's hardly embarrassed by his flip comments, especially when they're prefaced by the lonely look in his eyes. "And you're Dean James." She says the name like the parody it most certainly is.

"Just Dean works," he says, and she can tell that he's sizing her up, probably onto her suspicion about the name.

"It suits you," she admits.

A wink, surprisingly uncontrived. "I'm flattered."

"So…what brings you here tonight, Dean?"

"Carelessness."

So he's hiding something. "Well, it wouldn't be the first time that a young man in your age bracket came in because of some…rowdiness."

"We are a reckless breed, ma'am."

Once more, she suspects that there's more to this story than youthful foolishness, but she figures it's none of her business. "It shouldn't be too long before the doctor has the results." She fishes around in her mind for something to discuss, something innocuous, something that doesn't bruise or burn or break. "You in college?"

Poor choice. He flinches, eyes darkening. "No. Not really my speed."

"What's your speed?" she asks, a little more tentatively.

"I'm a mechanic," he explains.

"Fan of cars, then."

"I love them." A smile—almost real, this time—softens his angular features. "They're dependable. If something breaks, it just takes the right touch and a spare part to put it back together…and they last, too, if they're built right." His voice trails away, and she thinks that he looks a little self-conscious, rambling like that.

But she gets it. Finally. It's a way through to him—past the walls he has around him, invisible but intrepid…built, she imagines, with remembrance and blood. But she understands his language now.

"Great thing about cars," she says at last. "They're always where you want them."

He goes very still at that, and then his eyes meet hers. "Yeah," he answers. His voice is quiet, pained, but he's letting her see the hurt instead of trying to hide it, and that's got to count for something. "It's a great thing."

He closes his eyes after that, and maybe he even sleeps…but she doesn't leave, because she thinks he would notice if she did.


End file.
